by Gill Hornby
“No, my dear, I fear not. Though it was never a matter of particular sadness to her.” Cassandra smiled. How she loved the chance to talk of her Jane. “She could always enjoy the company of the heroes of her novels, but in life she never had the good fortune to meet a man who was worthy—”
“Forgive me, Aunt Cass, but I think you are mistaken!” exclaimed Caroline. “Surely, there was once a gentleman!”
Cassandra felt suddenly uneasy. What was this new, alternative history? She issued the line she had perfected and honed: “I can assure you, my sister never once formed any sort of attachment of the strength to disturb the surface of her contented existence.”
“But,” Caroline went on, with mounting excitement, “I am talking of the gentleman you both met at the seaside. You told me the story yourself, Aunt.” She turned to Isabella: “It truly is the stuff of romance,” then back to Cassandra: “I recounted this all to my brother James-Edward, only recently. Do you not remember? Oh, dear Aunt Cass, I do believe I have never before seen you quite so confused.”
“And pale!” added Isabella, coming over to her side. “Perhaps you should go up and rest? You have not been yourself these past two days.”
Cassandra’s head was spinning. She felt weak. She had no recollection of saying any such thing, ever, to any—and at once her mind flooded with the recollection of the whole sorry scene: the one moment of weakness and deceit in a lifetime of honesty and iron self-control. For the sake of her dignity she had simply chosen to forget. “I must say I do not know what on earth you are talking about, Caroline. What is this fancy you have got in your head?”
“Only one you put in there! Well, if you really do not remember”—Caroline glanced sideways at her aunt—“then let me tell the story.”
“Indeed,” Cassandra replied, outwardly calm, all turmoil within. “Please do.”
“So,” Caroline began. “This is the sum of it and all that I know. It came out—when was it? About ’28, I think it must have been. You were staying with us near here, at Newtown. Or perhaps you do not recall Newtown, even? Where we lived with my brother?”
“Thank you, Caroline,” Cassandra replied, tartly. “My memories of Newtown are perfectly clear.”
Caroline turned back to Isabella. “My brother had a friend, a Mr. Henry Edridge—a quite unusually good-looking and charming gentleman.”
Isabella sat up; this piqued her feminine interest.
“At that time he was with the Engineers.”
“Ah, the Engineers.” Isabella sighed.
“And he happened to call on us when my aunt Cassandra was staying. Well, she was very much struck with him. Could not take her eyes away! And really quite altered in the young gentleman’s presence. Almost kittenish, I am inclined to describe it.”
The cousins laughed; Cassandra squirmed.
“And I was very much struck by her admiration of him. For Aunt Cass rarely admires anyone, as you well know.”
Why, Cassandra wondered and not for the first time, did Caroline find it so hard to like her? The issue had long puzzled her, for she had always endeavored to be the kindest of aunts.
“It was quite soon after that visit that we heard Mr. Edridge had died.”
“No!” Isabella gasped. “Poor Mr. Edridge!”
“And when I related this fact to my aunt here she behaved in the most astonishing manner. She jumped up at once, then—legs too weak to hold her—sank back in her chair.” Caroline acted this out to add to the drama. In fact there was more of the melodrama in her performance. If only she, too, had chosen forgetfulness. “Her hands flew to her heart. She was completely beside herself, quite close to tears. And as you know no one has ever witnessed her crying—save my mother, of course.”
“Well, indeed.”
“And then the words just poured out of her: Mr. Edridge had struck her as one unusually gifted with all that was agreeable.”
“Dear Mr. Edridge.”
“And that he reminded her strongly of another gentleman from the past, whom they had met one summer when they were by the sea. I think, Aunt Cass, you indicated this was in Devonshire?”
Had she indeed? That was unfortunate. “As this did not happen,” Cassandra found the presence to reply, “I strongly doubt that I indicated any such thing.”
“You did not name the place, that I do know,” Caroline persisted. “Though I am sure you did not say Lyme, for that I should have remembered.”
“Nothing ever happened in Lyme, to that I shall testify.” Cassandra cleared her throat. “Though there was that fire when my family was staying—”
“Yes, yes.” With a flick of her hand, Caroline extinguished that tired anecdote before it could find life, and resumed. “And this gentleman seemed greatly attracted to my dearest aunt Jane. Imagine, Isabella, meeting a gentleman by the seaside. And falling in love.”
“Oh, imagine.”
“I gathered that this was an intercourse of a few weeks. And then it came to that point that all lovers dread: the moment of parting.”
“The worst, the very worst moment of all,” Isabella said, with some feeling.
“And he was urgent to know where the family might be next summer, implying—I think—that he should be there also, wherever it might be.”
“Yes?”
“And soon after they heard of his death!”
On that tragic note Isabella was struck dumb, as was Cassandra, for quite different reasons. Half of Caroline’s story was plainly ridiculous. The girl had always had a strong imagination, as well as a talent for embroidery, and was employing both quite liberally here. But how now to proceed? It was not easy to dismiss as complete fabrication that which held the kernel of truth. She paused. It was vital to choose her words carefully.
“Well, what a lovely confection of nothing at all that was, my dear,” she began, sounding, she hoped, characteristically firm. “Most charming, indeed; so charming I almost wish it had happened. How amused your aunt Jane would be to hear of herself as its heroine.” With some effort, she drew herself to her feet. “I remember your Mr. Edridge quite clearly, now you remind me, and I do agree I was most moved by the news of his death.” She reached down for her valise. “As one is when any young person of promise is taken too early.” She went to leave the room. “I can only think that the sadness of it all promoted some strange episode within me.” The very act of walking was increasingly difficult. She clutched at the doorframe for support. “Such confusion can strike sometimes, when one is old. They may happen to you when you are my age. And so now you know that, these days, you can no longer count on me as any sort of reliable witness. The past is becoming increasingly blurred.” She felt for the doorknob and turned on the threshold. “I should not repeat that story if I were you, Caroline. When your aunt Jane was still with us and enjoying her little burst of success, there came a few vultures who liked to feed on any scraps of her life. The stories were not enough for them. They wanted the facts about her, and she was not minded to share them. As her novels live on—and I hope and believe they will do—there may well be more in the future. We must be very mindful of what we leave out for them to pick on. Very mindful indeed.”
Cassandra opened the door, stepped into the dimly lit hall, and, as she did so, caught an indistinct figure shrink suddenly into the shadows. “Oh!” she cried out in alarm.
“Excuse me, m’m.” The figure stepped forward and bobbed. “Only me, m’m.”
“Good heavens, Dinah! You gave me quite a turn.”
“Just at m’ dusting, m’m. No rest for the wicked.”
Dusting the keyhole? “Most conscientious,” she said, smiling. Was it a trick of the lamp, or, for once, did the maid look almost abashed? “But please, do not work too hard. Good night, Dinah.”
“’Night, m’m.”
Cassandra turned away. She felt thoroughly weary, and the vicarage stairs now loomed before her, steep as an alpine peak. Slowly, carefully, she scaled them. By the time she got to her room, she
was almost breathless. Shutting the door firmly on the horrors of the evening, she fell onto her bed.
Thoughts of such mundanities as changing into her nightclothes or attending to her toilet were stillborn. Cassandra’s mind was full. Her brain was pounding. Her whole being was consumed with involuntary, recovered sensation: the sea air on her cheeks; the pretty tinkle that shop doorbell made when one opened it; the shock—that piercing, scorching, quicksilver flash—when her gloved hand chanced to touch that of a stranger. And that warm, melting sense of homecoming when she looked up and into his eyes.
* * *
“MISS AUSTEN? MISS AUSTEN!” Dinah’s voice came as though from the end of a very long tunnel. “Oh God save us, don’t tell me she’s gone and died on us. That’s all we need!” In a moment of blessed relief, a cool hand touched her forehead before it was whipped away again, sharply. “She’s on fire! Can you hear me, Miss Austen? You stay there now. I’ll get help. Miss Isabella?” The dark room fell silent once more.
Now roused to something like consciousness, Cassandra felt agony all over her person: Head, throat, limbs all throbbed and burned; her mouth had, unaccountably, been filled with sharp objects; lungs were in combat with air. And yet that was as nothing to the pain in her psyche. Was this it: the thing she dreaded above all? Oh, she had never feared death—indeed, had often felt impatient for its protracted arrival. What, she might ask it, took you so long?—but when it came, it must come to her in her own bed. To die when away visiting—inflicting such inconvenience, suffering those final indignities in a foreign house; denied a last gaze upon her own bedroom walls, or a silent farewell to her beloved home soil—that was the worst fate of all.
As she struggled to sit up, another thought struck with a force that sent her back deep into the pillow: She could not, she must not go now. Her work was not done.
“Cassandra? My dear, can you speak to me? Tell me, what are your symptoms?”
She thought she replied—“I must confess to feeling a little under the weather, Isabella”—but they did not seem to hear.
“It’s a fever, madam. Feel her. A raging fever. I’ll call the doctor at once.”
“No, Dinah!” Isabella was sharp. “We will not have the doctor.”
Cassandra tried to speak. “But I have plenty of money. Do not worry about that, Isabella. Oddly enough, I have ended up rather well off in my old age. That is the unexpected benefit of outliving one’s loved ones. I have profited most shamefully by my longevity. So please, do not consider the cost of it. I insist I will pay.”
“Listen to her. She’s got the deliriums. She must be in terrible danger. She’s as old as them hills. Please, Miss Isabella. I’ll run and get him now. We don’t want her pegging out here.”
Cassandra tried again—“I am only sorry that I may not be much help in the house, just today”—but no one acknowledged her.
“No,” Isabella talked over her. “We cannot and we will not have the doctor, and that is the end of it. It is simply unthinkable! I shall nurse her myself. Let us not waste any more time in discussion. Fetch the laudanum, Dinah, the tartar, cold water, and flannels. Then go up to the big house and beg for some ice. They should have plenty at this time of year.”
Though the voice was unmistakably that of Isabella, the commanding tone and active efficiency were quite unexpected, as was the hostility to professional medicine. Had not she been most complimentary about their doctor before? Cassandra wanted to open her eyes just to confirm the identity of this confident individual, but that did not seem to be possible, right at that moment.
“Do accept my apologies for causing all this inconvenience. I am sure I will be perfectly restored after a few hours’ sleep.”
“Try and hush now, Cassandra. You will hurt your throat with that moaning. Now I am going to undress you and get you under the covers.”
The first of the many indignities!
“Do not struggle, dear. You will exhaust yourself further. It is only me, Isabella. There we are. That must feel better now, does it not? I am just going to slip your nightgown over your head.”
The arms that pulled back the bedding, plumped up the pillows, and were now tenderly laying her upon them were careful, expert, and strong. Cassandra wanted to think more about this, to reassess her hostess in the light of this revelation. But then her mouth was opened, laudanum dropped on her tongue, and all thoughts were lost.
* * *
LIKE A TEMPEST, THE ILLNESS raged through her. For several days Cassandra battled and raved at it. This would not take her. She must prevail. All sense of time was lost as she took on each symptom and summoned some sort of strength to beat it away.
There was the odd false release, when the illness lulled and her body could rally. Then she might see Dinah in the doorway—gimlet eyes set in a face hard with resentment—or Caroline wringing her hands, unsure what to do. And Pyramus, always Pyramus: standing guard at her bedside and willing her well.
The darkest hour came when her sister-in-law, Mary, appeared. Then Jane’s voice came through to her, from another sickroom in another, more terrible time: “She is to attend me? I can admit now to having harbored faint hopes of recovery. But if Mary is coming, I must face it: Death cannot be far behind.”
“I pity you, Cassandra. I must say I pity you,” Mary was saying. “It is a maxim of mine that one must mind never to fall ill when one is visiting—the height of bad manners—and I am proud to say that I have never once had the misfortune to break it.”
Cassandra decided that she was too frail to respond.
“Of course there was the one occasion when I was staying with your brother in London and brought down with the face-ache. Oh, the pain! One can know no true discomfort until one has suffered that. But I had taken my own maid and—how lucky I was, then—a dear, caring husband. But you, all alone…”
A weak sun filtered between the thin curtains. Cassandra had lost track of the days but could sense that, while she had lain there and done nothing, spring had been striding ahead.
“It must be misery, aware as you must be of the terrible impact you are having. The house was already at sixes and sevens. I must say…”
For the first time she felt a confidence that she would be up and about soon, and able to drink up that brisk, fresh air.
“… I do feel for poor Isabella. As a vicarage wife myself, then—alas!—a vicarage widow, I know better than anyone what has to be done and the emotions entailed. I shall never, never forget your brother Henry’s glee when it was his turn to take over Steventon. It is not pleasant to witness the elation of your successor in gaining what you have lost. Not a thought for us or our feelings! No respect for our home or possessions! Naught but a rapacious—rapacious!—desire to get all that he could.”
The pain had now eased, yet Cassandra still begged for a strong dose of laudanum. She felt an overwhelming desire for a very deep sleep.
* * *
THERE WAS, THOUGH, ONE POSITIVE aspect to this brush with her Maker, and for that Cassandra was grateful. Even before the crisis she had started to develop an affection for dear Isabella, that strange little romantic who had never felt a breath of romance. To that she could now add respect.
She had already discounted Isabella’s lack of domestic abilities. After all, Cassandra told herself, running a house—though important, and someone did have to do it—was not the only indicator of personal depth. On her first full day here, she had hoped that the true talent of her hostess would be revealed. And now, thanks to this unfortunate business, it had been.
Isabella was born to physic the sick: That much was clear. Her potions were equal to those of the highest apothecary; she applied them with wisdom as if properly trained. Her manner was all kindness but, on top of that, sensible—one might even call it professional. What a comfort she must have been to her ailing parents. What a comfort she was now to Cassandra.
“You know, my dear, I owe my life to you,” she proclaimed. This was, by her own standards, a
rare outburst of the highest emotion, though her voice was so weak it took the force from her words.
“Nonsense.” Isabella lifted her, straightened the bed linen. “Even at the crisis, I could feel that stubborn determination within you.” She smiled with approval. “Your strength is extraordinary. It will take more than a fever to undo you, Cassandra. That I can see.” She settled down in the armchair. “Now, would you like me to read, or are you fit for conversing today?”
“Please, the latter. Tell me, how passed your morning? What goes on in the world of the well?”
“My best pupil was in with me earlier. Poor Winterbourne’s boy. Such a good head for numbers.”
Cassandra was now in the calm, tedious process of convalescence. Not yet well enough for downstairs, she was at least less of a nuisance to the household. Dinah left her alone, and a meek daily maid came in her place.
But each afternoon Isabella sat with her, and that was always the best part of her day. Through her life, Cassandra’s happiest moments had been passed in the company of excellent women. They had all, of course, sadly departed. Oh, she missed and thought of them constantly, and of one above all.
“His poor mother has never recovered herself, but he, I believe, could have a future. My scheme is to bring him on as well as I am able and then introduce him to my good friend at the Hungerford Apothecary. An apprenticeship like that will make all the difference to the unfortunate family…”
Now, here, in this vicarage, Cassandra had found another, most unexpected, excellent woman. She had quite forgotten the feeling—that deep, joyful, and satisfying feeling brought by good feminine companionship. What a blessing to enjoy it once more.
* * *
WITHIN DAYS CASSANDRA WAS WELL enough to rise from her bed for just a few hours, and sit in the armchair with the sun on her face. Soon, she thought, she might have the strength to not only hold a novel but also to read it herself. Isabella rushed off to select something and was gone for some time.